Blue Skies
by Gemenied
Summary: A series of drabbles and ficlets from the "Blue Skies"-drabblethon.
1. Waiting

Title: Blue Skies

Rating: T (some a little higher, but not too much)

Disclaimer: I do own nothing except my joy in writing this.

A/N: Over the last month I've participated in a little writing challenge, that offered a prompt every day and required me to write a story (between 100 and 1000 words) for that prompt. Though I did not manage all, I wrote a few which I'd love to share with you here. Hope you enjoy them.

Prompt 1 was this stanza:

_I was blue, just as blue as I could be_  
><em>Ev'ry day was a cloudy day for me<em>  
><em>Then good luck came a-knocking at my door<em>  
><em>Skies were gray but they're not gray anymore<em>  
>("Blue Skies" by Irving Berlin)<p>

Enjoy!

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><p>"Waiting"<p>

It's typical fashion that it rains relentlessly. Summer in London lasts for two days in July and three in August. It's only June, so they aren't entitled to blue skies. It's grey and dull and wet and depressing.

She's not having a good day, which is quite frankly to be expected. She rarely has had a good one since this nightmare started; she's just better than most at hiding how she feels.

He is a far cry from having this ability, never deals well with close and personal signs of human mortality. It's different in their job, but on a personal level, he's stereotypical in his avoidance.

Maybe that's why his insistence to accompany her was such a surprise. She's told him that it isn't necessary, that she could manage on her own, but he didn't budge, insisted, and she's known him for too long not to see the futility of her efforts.

So, he sits in the chair next to her, has been sitting for a good half an hour already. He's not a patient man and so the waiting must drive him nuts. It works for her. Every minute is like an hour and she isn't sure how much longer she can stand it. But surprisingly, he still just sits and stares into the distance. At times his hand strays over to hers for a quick brush or squeeze, and the small contacts drive her blood pressure up. It is for a whole different reason than why she's actually here and she counts this as a small blessing.

He doesn't like hospitals, neither does she.

Yet they've spend days, weeks here.

She's tried to be upbeat about the situation, cautiously optimistic as the doctors say, but the surgery didn't do the job and the first round of radiation treatments didn't either. If the second doesn't work... She hardly dares thinking of it.

Chemotherapy is worse than anything she can imagine, and for a brief moment she wonders if she wouldn't rather die than go through the hell that are the side effects. The thought has been with her for days now, ever since she's had the blood tests done. She hasn't voiced it, because they - he most of all - would go mental over it.

She hasn't slept well, hasn't been able to focus, really. But taking time off has been out of question, not only because they are in the middle of a case - and have a deadline - but also because it would have made matters worse, giving her time to think even more.

He's been solicitous, even more so than usual, but so have been Spence and Eve. Between them she's barely had a quiet minute, especially since the Linda Cummings-disaster, and at times that almost made her scream in frustration. But she's grateful nonetheless, relieved that she doesn't have to go through this alone.

It explains, in a way, why he is here. Boyd would never say it out loud, probably isn't even thinking it, but he'd never leave her alone in this situation. So, he sits. And waits. And now takes her hand. She gives him a tremulous smile that intensifies in its nervousness as she sees the doctor's assistant walking towards them.

Boyd squeezes her hand and she's surprised to notice the tremor. But it could be her own fear manifesting itself, so she doesn't call him on it. Instead she gives him another, hopefully encouraging smile.

Unexpectedly, he doesn't just smile back crookedly, but pulls her into his arms and holds her tight, pressing a kiss into her hair. It's almost her undoing, fear and stress and worry coming to a head. Her knees buckle, but he still holds her tightly against him.

"Good luck," he whispers, and those two raspy syllables ring in her ear. But more than that it's his warmth and solidness, and the smell of his after cologne, that stays with her as she follows the assistant.

Less than ten minutes later she'll be out of the office, her grin as wide as humanly possible. She'll feel a lightness she hasn't known since...God knows when.

Though her face will probably already answer all questions, he'll still gets up expectantly and put all curiosity and hope into the three letters of, "And?"

It's possible that she'll give a verbal answer, but it's more likely that tears are running down her cheeks, despite her wide smile. It will be enough to give him the answer and more than enough for him to do something that is so untypically Boyd that she only now realizes just how much her illness has affected him.

He'll pull her into his arms, his embrace almost crushing her ribs. He won't let go for minutes, not even when he'll raise her chin to look at him. Her knees will go weak again, but this time for a completely different reason.

She won't be surprised when he kisses her in the hospital hallway. She won't surprised when he does it again. And again.

She won't even be surprised when he doesn't let go of her as they leave the building.

What will surprise her is the fact that it isn't raining any more.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	2. Fireworks

**Title:** Fireworks  
><strong>Prompt:<strong> Blue Skies 2 (a picture of fireworks)  
><strong>Rating &amp; Warnings:<strong> T (none)  
><strong>Word Count:<strong> 640  
><strong>Summary:<strong>They are going to see the fireworks.

A/N: This was the second prompt. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>Fireworks<strong>

They don't do fireworks, at least not the conventional kind. Theirs amount to rows of epic proportions that have grown and hardened men scramble, for cover. They also don't do normal things, which is due to their line of work and the never-ending stream of decaying corpses and too deep an insight into the darkest corners of human cruelty.

They don't do domesticity either. Well, he doesn't. Leave the office at a decent hour, go shopping at Tesco's, then cook dinner and end the evening in front of the telly, before going to bed for a page or two of recreational reading and then sex (or not). That's too normal and they don't do that.

So, it is out of the question that they go to the park for some music festival and then watch the fireworks that mark its end.

This is what he tells her, repeatedly and with ever increasing volume to his voice.

Besides, this is London and when do you ever have an evening when you don't get drowned trying to do some outdoor activity?

But she's a lot more convincing than anybody would ever give her credit for and he's really just a pussycat when it comes to her. He'd never admit that and anybody claiming such an outrageous thing would meet with a painful and very untimely death.

He also groans and complains all the way to the park, after having complained all through the preparations of a picnic-basket. She's suffered it mostly in silence and he ignored the increasing tension in her body for as long as possible, going on and on and on.

But there came the point when she whipped around, her body tightly coiled and her expression thunderous and, though he'd never admit it to anybody either, he actually took a step back.

Grace is a small woman, short and slight, and she is the most serene and calm person he's ever met, but quite frankly, the idea of her exploding in his face scares him shitless. He goes off on one at any given moment, actually thrives on letting his temper explode, but Grace...

That would lead to fireworks of their usual kind. Epic rows, so barbed and vicious that even a man like him, claiming to barely have any emotion, fears the damage they do. They've been there before and the memory pains him still.

So, he relented, shut up and did all the domestic crap. He's also slipped one of her warm cardigans into the hamper, worried that it might get too cold and she might catch something that her still weakened body couldn't handle.

The festival is all he feared it to be. Loud, raucous, full of litter and drunk teenagers. But Grace wears an expression of bliss and excitement that reminds him firmly of a child on Christmas morning. She's got a few years on him, but he always marvels on how young she can be.

It must be the overwhelming smell of festival and fairs - caramel apples, candy floss, beer and burgers - that does a number on his brain. Otherwise he wouldn't have such touchy-feely thoughts.

It's downright impossible.

His arm is slung protectively around her shoulder, warning everybody not to come too closely to her as they approach the strip of grass where people are gathering to watch the display. His deeply ingrained training as a police officer makes the darkness and the mass of people an uneasy thing, but Grace's face lights up even more as the first rocket is sent up, exploding in a flash of white.

She's firmly vibrating with excitement, her eyes full of happy wonder.

"Isn't it wonderful?" she breathes as gleefully as if Liverpool had just won their 19th Premiere League title.

And Boyd decides, "Yeah, it is."

But he doesn't really mean the fireworks.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	3. The Colour Purple

**Title**: The Colour Purple  
><strong>Prompt<strong>: Blue Skies 3 (purple)  
><strong>Rating &amp; Warnings<strong>: T (none)  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: 174  
><strong>Summary<strong>: He has a surprisingly chivalrous streak.

A/N: I am sure that most of you will catch the reference made in this one. This little bit was sparked by it. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>"The Colour Purple"<strong>

They've been in this situation before. Sort of. It's been a long time and it definitely wasn't as warm then as it is now. They also had two then and were very properly and very circumspectly walking apart. She also sported a very colourful eye then and he was over-protective.

That definitely hasn't changed, though this time the turnout is a lot more...romantic.

In typical London fashion, it pours without pause, even though it is - supposedly - summer. It's also only a few steps from his car to the pub where they are going to celebrate his birthday.

But even though he usually hides his chivalrous streak, he has produced this huge purple umbrella from somewhere and offered her his arm to find shelter underneath as well.

To a stranger, this might give a completely wrong impression, for it looks for all the world as if a couple, an old married one at that, is strolling down a street in the pouring rain.

But since Peter isn't bothered, Grace doesn't dream of complaining.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments are greatly appreciated.<p> 


	4. Picture Postcard

Title: Picture Postcard  
>Prompt: Blue Skies 5 (a picture of a beach with sort of a ruin ibn the background)<br>Rating & Warnings: T (none)  
>Word Count: 234<br>Summary: Frankie has sent a postcard.

A/N: After I skipped prompt 4 as uninspirational,we proceed directly to 5. Hope you enjoy! Many thanks to ShadowSamurai83 for the speedy betas of all these little things.

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><p><strong>"Picture Postcard"<strong>

The picture postcard lies there mocking them all. They mock back, bantering and goading each other about the holidays they never take.

Spencer claims that this looks too Northern for him - he's more the Caribbean type. Lots of pretty, scantily dressed girls.

Stella and Eve roll their eyes at that, not only because it is typical of Spencer to say it, whether it is true or not, but also because it's a sport for them to roll their eyes at him. One of them usually goes to France - for family reasons - and the other is eager to go to excavation sites. If there are large numbers of dead bodies and bones involved, it's that much better.

That leaves only Grace and Boyd, and nobody even remotely thinks to ask him about his last vacation.

Boyd doesn't put in the effort to protest, the youngsters wouldn't believe him anyway.

He watches Grace across the table, taking in her amusement. She revels in the for once light mood around the table, and she's delighted with the fact that the postcard is from Frankie.

For a moment their eyes lock, unnoticed by the other three, and her smiles deepens into something warmer and more intimate. They wouldn't show the exact content of Frankie's greetings to anybody, but Boyd's infinitely warmed by the fact that their former colleague addressed the card to Grace _and_ him.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	5. The Blue Lagoon

Title: The Blue Lagoon  
>Prompt: Blue Skies 8 (a picture of two swimmers kissing under water)<br>Rating & Warnings: T (just some film-bashing)  
>Word Count: 254<br>Summary: What do you consider suitable evening entertainment?

A/N: I have to admit that I have rather embarrassing memories of this film (with Brooke Shields), which was _dernier cri_ when I was a kid. Really, don't watch it.

However, this little bit - please, enjoy.

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><p><strong>"The Blue Lagoon"<strong>

"You can't be serious!" he cries, and she has a very hard time not snorting into her wine glass.

"I'd rather go out and shoot myself!" he declares next - quite vehemently at that - and she's torn between rolling her eyes, groaning, and laughing some more.

His tantrum is worthy of a toddler screaming for sweets at the supermarket register, and with a shudder she remembers their last encounter with one. It still surprises her that he didn't go slap the mother and the child upside down, because in all honesty she was close to doing it herself.

That was about as atypical for her as his restraint was for him.

He doesn't display any now, giving a very credible imitation of a teenager avoiding hearing his parents' lecture. It looks wholly pathetic, but she knows him well enough now to realize that it's more for show than anything.

If she insists, he'll sit and watch "The Blue Lagoon" with her.

If she really, really insists, he'll even sit and watch the sequel.

He might growl, nag and complain for weeks. He will possibly never let her live down that she even considers such trash a suitable evening entertainment, especially since they could do anything - preferably have sex - in the meantime.

But he will do it.

She watches his perfect pout for a moment over the rim of her wine glass and wonders for just long she's going to let him sweat in fear that she is - indeed - serious.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	6. Reflections in the Water

Title: Reflections in the Water  
>Prompt: Blue Skies 10 (Sonner XVIII)<br>Rating & Warnings: T  
>Word Count: 940<br>Summary: Meeting under Waterloo Bridge

_And summers lease hath all too short a date:  
>Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,<br>And often is his gold complexion dimmd;  
>And every fair from fair sometime declines,<br>By chance, or natures changing course untrimmd;  
>But thy eternal summer shall not fade<br>(Sonnet XVIII by William Shakespeare)_

A/N: Prompt 10...and I ave to say this came about through the real Waterloo Bridge and watching a few Mummy&Daughter-moments provided angelvk! Thank you. And enjoy!_  
><em>

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><p><strong>"Reflections in the Water"<strong>_  
><em>

She isn't surprised to find him there, because he's spent a great deal of time in this place. He never says so, but it has become his place to think, reflect and contemplate. She believes him when he says that it is also the place where he finds peace.

Over Luke.

The bridge has become some sort of a staple in their memories. The four of them tend to meet here or inevitably end up here at some point when they all get together. Even Frankie comes by and that's saying something.

She slowly makes her way up the steps towards the fence. It's as dirty as ever, rubbish on the ground, the bench still not repaired and not even remotely fit for sitting. It doesn't matter, they always stand by the fence.

It's what he does now, gazing out on the play of light on the uneven surface of the river. He doesn't notice her, his gaze focussed on the water, and the noise of the traffic is loud enough to swallow the sound of her steps. He doesn't react when she comes to stand next to him and she doesn't say a word.

Something must have brought him here today, so she searches his face for a sign. He doesn't give much away, but his expression is calm, so she isn't too worried.

"What is it, Boyd?" she finally asks, her voice quiet against the barrage of sound of the summery city. There are people out and about, relishing in the one-day summer they've been granted. All of London seems to have come out and yet, there's just the two of them under Waterloo Bridge.

He doesn't answer, just gestures with his chin towards the water. The sun is reflecting on the surface, throwing back almost blinding white and golden lights. It's beautiful and lively, warm and cooling at the same time. Very soothing.

Looking in the direction and seeing this display, she has an epiphany. White, golden, fair, yet soothing and cool. She remembers the winter day and the scarf in a box, the champagne and the cake. They were the last ones in her office, sitting down on the sofa, just chatting. Like mother and daughter.

She remembers her face, her smile, the ready wit.

She also remembers the blood, the broken eyes, and in another epiphany realizes what day it is. August 16th. It wasn't warm and sunny then, and even if it had been, it would have felt like the coldest day on Earth.

The thought makes her swallow, her heart suddenly in her throat, breathing made difficult. She gasps at the sudden pain, usually dim, but now sharp again. Turning away, she tries to gather her strength and tamp down on her emotion. He's never good with that and if he's come here today, then the date troubles him more than he'd admit. Dealing with her grief too would make it just that much worse for him.

It surprises her when she can suddenly feel his chest against her back, his body providing a pillar to lean on, and then he even slips his arms around her from behind. Leaning back against him, she takes a few centring breaths, a smile forming when he buries his face in her neck.

They aren't that physical with each other in public usually, but it matters little for the moment.

After a while, they turn back towards the sunny side of the bridge, where the lights still bathe the world in white and gold and warmth.

"You know, to me she always looked a bit like the sun on freshly fallen snow," she says after a while, fully expecting him to scoff at such a frilly and touchy-feely notion. He doesn't reply, just holds her tighter.

When he speaks, he sounds hoarse, almost choked with emotion he'll probably only show to her and only when they are alone. "To me, she had a bit of summer - the both of you. Sounds stupid, but the two of you together... That was like family."

There is an unspoken agreement that she'll never repeat his words to anybody else, and only a few would probably believe her anyway. "We were a family," she says finally. "And we are one now."

They are quiet again, contemplating the truth of this statement while they still hold on to each other.

The sun is very slowly sinking, afternoon languidly turning into early evening. The noise of traffic begins to lessen, giving the lapping waves of the river a chance to do a more soothing job. The sunlight dances still, though its patterns change. They watch the changes, mentally putting them together with the memories of a young woman they both knew, both loved and lost too soon.

He sighs finally, one arm leaving their embrace as he fishes for something in his pocket. She isn't bothered much, content and peaceful.

It's his phone he's picked up and she gives him a questioning look as to whom he wants to call now.  
>He smiles reassuringly and she relaxes again.<p>

It doesn't surprise her when she hears him say, "Spence? It's Boyd. Fancy getting Eve and Frankie and meeting us for a pint?"

Once the call is ended, she turns and gives him a gentle, intimate smile. "Family dinner?"

He nods and pulls her away from the fence and the dancing golden lights of the river. She may no longer be with them, the youngest of their team, blue-eyed and golden haired, but tonight she will be like an invisible, but well-remembered presence amongst them.

Warm, golden, fair and white. And very alive.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments are greatly appreciated.<p> 


	7. The Mersey

Title: The Mersey  
>Prompt: Blue Skies 11 (a picture of a derelict public swimming pool)<br>Character(s)/Pairing(s): Grace+Eve  
>Rating &amp; Warnings: T<br>Word Count: 282  
>Summary: 'cross the Mersey<p>

A/N: No B/G this time, but I liked the idea of going into Grace's past a little. Enjoy! And thank you again ShadowSamurai83 - it was speedy service :-).

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><p><strong>"The Mersey"<strong>

They leave the car slowly, somewhat wary of the things ahead. It's par de course in their line of work to see the most desolate places in Greater London. Derelict, ruined, broken down. Still, this is slightly different from many others and it takes a while until they find their spot.

"When I was a child," Grace says with a smile of fond memories, "we always went to the lido by the Mersey. Barely had a penny for admittance, but somehow we always got in."

"And you're alive?" Eve throws back in disbelief. "The Mersey was even more polluted than the Thames and that seems hardly possible. It's not a river, it's a cauldron of all known chemicals."

Grace shakes her head as she hands over a vial to the scientist. "What did we know about environment and nature protection, clean water and such things? When you're twelve, all that matters is that it's hot and there's a river bank where all your friends gather to cool off."

"And show off, I'm sure," Eve replies with a smile of her own.

The psychologist blushes a little, but in the end chuckles. "Yes, there was that too."

"Happy memories?"

"Yes." Grace stares into the distance for a moment, no doubt having images of those old and carefree days playing before her inner eye. "Very happy."

It's just the two of them here today, Eve and Grace, collecting further traces - of blood, of debris, of plants - to analyze and present at the team meeting in the morning.

The scenery of the old public pool is slightly depressing, but the profiler remembers and scientist imagines better times and that works just as well.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	8. She

Title: She  
>Prompt: Blue Skies 12 ("Sultry")<br>Character(s)/Pairing(s): Boyd/Grace  
>Rating &amp; Warnings: T (a little hinting)<br>Word Count: 100  
>Summary: They know nothing.<p>

A/N: I'm a very happy person these days - courtesy of the very, very lovely Sue Johnston. That aside, I really like this one here. Enjoy.

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><p><strong>"She"<strong>

Nobody would give it to her, but people know nothing.

They only see a mask and never know what's underneath.

They recognize the professional - intelligent, intellectual, experienced.

They never see the woman.

The woman is only for him.

She who laughs readily. She who makes him ask for forgiveness. She who hogs the duvet every night.

They can't imagine her provocative, sensual and seductive. Completely fearless.

Only he can see the heated invitation in her eyes; only he can feel her knowing fingers intently mapping his pleasure points.

And her sultry voice is for him alone.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	9. Stake Out

Title: Stake Out  
>Prompt: Blue Skies 14 (picture of a man mowing a large lawn)<br>Character(s)/Pairing(s): Spence/Eve  
>Rating &amp; Warnings: T<br>Word Count: 794  
>Summary: They watch him mistreat that thing.<p>

A/N: This bit was entirely inspired by the Sisters-in-Stihl. They know who they are. Enjoy!

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><p><strong>"Stake Out"<strong>

"Aren't you glad that it isn't you, Spence?" Eve sounds as sardonic and mischievous as she always does, especially when she teases her colleague.

The man is in a mellow and slightly amused mood himself, so he doesn't take offense and just chuckles. "I'm mostly glad that I'm not the one who has to deal with his aggravation afterwards. Thank God Grace volunteered."

Eve snorts, but doesn't point out that the profiler is a) much better suited to tame the lion and b) doesn't really have a choice in the matter. They both know it well enough, but it is not a topic they discuss, even less now that Sarah has joined the team. That they even make a mention of it is due to the second monitor, which the scientist watches.

On it she can see Sarah sitting next to a pram, looking for all and sundry like a young mother taking her baby out to the small park next to the house. The idea sounds absurd, for Eve has found little warmth of the heart in their new addition. There's nothing happening, except the DSI pushing the pram to and fro seemingly absently while being immersed in a book.

Of course, the look is deceiving, but that's the whole point.

Eve focuses back on the other monitor to get another good look at the happenings there. If she hadn't seen it with her own eyes, she would claim that the 'scene is unreal.

"I'm surprised he hasn't killed that thing yet," she mutters after a while.

"Focus on the job, Boyd has it in abundance." This time it's Spencer who sounds sardonic.

His companion shrugs. "I know. Still, I'd never take Boyd to be the type."

Spencer is suddenly serious, which becomes even more pronounced through the way he looks away. "Better he gets used to it soon."

"Mowing? Boyd?" Eve laughs, trying to cover up the fact that the idea pushes her heart into her throat.

"Well...you know...gardening, playing golf, whatever."

They are both silent, the idea taking shape in their minds. It's only a few minutes until the replacement will come and Boyd can leave the hated task of pushing a mower. Neither can imagine him taking this up as a pastime. Even now, after such a limited amount of time, his impatience and frustration is beginning to shine through.

"They'll retire him sooner rather than later," Spencer picks up again. "Bringing Sarah in..."

There it is, the elephant in the room, the thought they've all been unable to dismiss off-handedly.

"He won't go quietly."

They are silent again, for there is nothing they could say for or against it. Boyd is the opposite of a pensioner, the antithesis of a retiring and retired man. Neither can imagine him sitting at home without police work, without having a team to interact with and to shout at. The man doesn't have a hobby, in fact...not even a life outside his job.

Without his job, Boyd would be a dead man walking.

It's a gut-wrenching thought to both of them, but one they don't mention.

"Finishing time," Spencer announces unnecessarily, and unnecessarily loudly to break the sober mood. Both focus again on the monitor and can barely contain a grin at the obvious relief that shows in Boyd's entire body as his replacement takes over, continuing with the stake-out.

Sarah will have to sit for half an hour longer and so the two in the bullpen stay and keep watching as well.

Boyd leaves the scene in the opposite direction of Sarah's position. By silent agreement, Spencer switches the monitor to another camera, following Boyd's steps. It takes only a few minutes, but when he finally reaches the place where he's parked his car, neither of the two in the office is surprised to see that there's somebody waiting for Boyd.

They are also not surprised by the person's identity.

Boyd gestures wildly, no doubt already venting his frustration, but the woman reacts with barely more than a smile.

Spencer and Eve watch the moment, rolling their eyes at how typical the situation is.

Boyd rants and raves and Grace calms him down.

The way she does it, however, is probably not even new, but has never been witnessed like that by the younger two. Eve turns away quickly and Spencer switches to the original camera.

They look at each other after a moment, communicating their embarrassment over having, sort of, caught their colleagues in flagrante delecto. Spencer can't hold her gaze and Eve can't stop a slight blush.

While they silently agree not to share their knowledge with anybody, there's also a slight smile appearing on both of their faces. Boyd's present isn't that dark, so maybe his future isn't either.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	10. A Room With A View

Title: A Room With A View  
>Prompt: Blue Skies 18 ("sweat")<br>Character(s)/Pairing(s): Boyd/Grace  
>Rating &amp; Warnings: T+ (there is some self-indulgent stuff in there)<br>Word Count: 510  
>Summary: They're having a heatwave.<p>

A/N: This one is not only to be blamed on Joodiff, but also entirely for her and her blood pressure. Shallow is a good way of life. But by all means, all of you...enjoy!

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><p><strong>"A Room With A View"<strong>

She isn't normally so shallow. In fact, she's not shallow at all, and really way beyond this line of thought. It's not appropriate for a woman of her age and professional position. She could analyse this to a 'T', but since it would be herself she's analysing, she prefers to refrain from it, preferring to rather...uhm...stare.

She thinks she can't really be blamed for her shallow thoughts, because it's really too easy to fall into the trap.

It's hot. Granted.

So she is hot.

It's not entirely due to the heat and the fact that, of course, on a day like this, when London experiences a real heatwave with temperatures over 30C, the air conditioning in the building breaks down.

He's already had a few choice words to say on the matter and she didn't stop him.

Now, however, she thinks - shallowly - that it is a blessing in disguise.

They are all hot and thus nobody will notice that she isn't only hot, but bothered as well.  
>Very hot and very bothered.<p>

There's something so utterly male about it, she decides, not that he needs an extra in this regard. He's got manliness in spades (and he knows it too); it's part of his 'charm'. So, when he goes around with his manly, testosterone-filled swagger, it certainly affects her, but she's learned to deal with it.

Pure self-preservation. She's too old and too wise for schoolgirl swoons, though they would be typical for her age-inappropriate shallowness.

Her eyes wander up and down his spine, lingering on the muscles in his back moving as he pulls the metal object further into the room.

In a way, she regrets that he didn't do just a spot more of the bad boy routine. No tattoos on his back.

Too bad.

Leaning back in her chair, she ignores the annoying stickiness of the faux leather under her backside. She can't really do what he's done. Not without consequences, at least. Definitely not in this place.

So she goes back to (not so) covertly ogling him.

The physical effort he makes to haul more ventilators into their offices certainly has an effect. Not only is there rippling muscles and dancing sinews under his skin, but there's also - and she swears she can see it from her spot - a drop of sweat slowly, very slowly, rolling down his spine.

And damn, if she doesn't want to get up and lick that drop away.

He looks over his shoulder, straight into her eyes, and for a moment her breath catches audibly.

He doesn't say a word, doesn't need to.

There's a look in his eyes that tells her that he'll take off still more than his shirt today.

Later.

They might not leave this overheated building. And she might take off quite a few of her clothes as well.

Later.

Until then, with an innocent grin that is far from pure, she keeps enjoying the view of him hauling artificial cooling equipment into the office. Half-naked.

Damn, she's so shallow. So happily shallow.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	11. Varieties

Title: Varieties  
>Prompt: Blue Skies 21 ("storm")<br>Character(s)/Pairing(s): Boyd/Grace  
>Rating &amp; Warnings: T<br>Word Count: 270  
>Summary: He is a storm in all its varieties.<p>

A/N: Another one where I really like how it turned out. Enjoy.

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><p><strong>"Varieties"<strong>

He is a storm in all its varieties.

He's dangerous, like all those horrific storms that blast around the globe, mowing down everything in his way. He doesn't care then, doesn't even see anything or anybody.

In those cases, she should duck and take cover, but usually, she's the only one who doesn't. The results are painful and lasting, staying with him almost longer than they do with her.

He's exciting, like a summer storm that comes suddenly and charges the atmosphere with energy. He heightens all her senses and is like a match kindling a flame.

She burns as well, but she's gladly consumed by the fire.

He's wild, like the changing gales that whip around you from surprising angles, throwing you back and forth. It's a play almost, once you allow yourself to be swept along.

She's been swept away on a wave of passion and yet she craves more. It's become an addiction to feel the rush, the unbridled sensations and the mindlessness in his arms.

He is, rare as it is, the eye of a storm. Calm and peaceful and quiet. It usually follows the wildness and the excitement, when they both collapse bonelessly with each other, when neither is capable of more that idle strokes of the other's skin.

It's then that he holds her protectively, keeping the rest of the world away. The lure of that moment is even bigger than the other varieties, but she gladly takes them all.

She has become a storm seeker, a storm hunter, willingly swept away and eagerly chasing the point when the storm that he is unleashes.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	12. Wet Pavement

Title: Wet Pavement  
>Prompt: Blue Skies 24 ("scent")<br>Rating & Warnings: T  
>Word Count: 281<br>Summary: Rain on hot pavement has a specific smell.

A/N: This is the second to last from this collection (unless, I have ideas for the previously unwritten prompts) and I hope you'll enjoy this one as well.

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><p><strong>"Wet Pavement"<strong>

They step out in the early hours of the morning and naturally it's raining. Another endless night they've spent sequestered in the offices, after a full day indoors. Going through the minute details of forensics keeps you from encountering summer weather. It's always dark when you get in and dark when you leave. And it rains.

It must have been hot earlier, because there is this specific scent of warm raindrops on heated pavement. A little burned, a little insufficient.

He'd never admit that he quite likes it. Just like he likes the smell of freshly mowed grass or the sight of flowers in full bloom.

There's a reason for it, which he wouldn't divulge either, but that's not there or then.

What he doesn't like, and has no qualms about making known, is the fact that the rain picks up, he's got no umbrella and will be soaked by the time he reaches his car. The dampness will do no good for his Audi, which drives his annoyance level just that much higher.

Add to that that he's tired, hungry, and in desperate need of a drink, his mood is quickly turning away from positive thoughts.

The woman in front of him stops suddenly, making him run straight into her. He swallows the curse that sits loosely on his tongue, for the touch reminds him why he secretly likes flowers in full bloom, freshly mowed grass and raindrops on the hot pavement.

Because she does.

She's leaning back at him while she rummages for her umbrella in her gigantic handbag and he takes the chance to get himself a whiff of his favourite scent of all - her warm skin.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


	13. Lyme Regis

**Title**: Lyme Regis  
><strong>Prompt<strong>: Blue Skies 27 ("freedom")  
><strong>Character(s)Pairing(s)**: Boyd/Grace  
><strong>Rating &amp; Warnings<strong>: T  
><strong>Word Count<strong>: 879  
><strong>Summary<strong>: It's not exactly Sugartown

A/N: This is the final installment to the series. Thank you all for reading and commenting. Mucho, mucho thanks go to ShadowSamurai83 for the beta and the constant encouragement. You're a star!

Enjoy.

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><p><strong>"Lyme Regis"<strong>

It's the wind in her face, she decides, that makes the difference between before and now. It's also a little scary that it happens. The past nine years haven't done much for her intake of actual fresh air. Ventilation was always on down in the basement, but when did she really get outside and anywhere near something like a natural setting?

They've been disbanded and she's been retired. The official holly-bolly is still to happen, but basically she should now add an 'ex' to each of her professional titles.

The thought stings more than she cares to admit. Despite the fact that she can still write books and articles and thus stay in touch with her profession, it will now all be academic. She already misses the hands on aspect.

Sometimes the surge is so strong that it almost burns her insides. It is painful to give up what has been her life for so long.

She wanders on, slowly, and to the casual onlooker, she might appear to savour the chance to leave her footsteps in the wet sand. Occasionally, she bends down to pick up a pebble or a shell, which would enforce the onlooker's opinion.

He'd be wrong, though.

She's killing time and for her, that is as sad as it sounds.

She has now what one would consider as absolute freedom. She's got time to do whatever she wants and she's got enough money to make it happen. Frankly, though, she doesn't know what to do.

Getting away hasn't brought on any bright insight. In fact, meandering along the shore is depressing her even more.

It's not yet full season and just as she arrived, the weather took a turn for the worse. Overhung skies, wind, the occasional shower. There are barely any people around, many tourist ventures still closed. It leaves her with too much time on her hands. Too much time to watch the telly (hardly recommended with the rubbish that's on), too much time to read (she can't settle on any plot) or - and this is the worst - too much time to think.

Which she does.

She thinks of the last years, of the future. She also thinks of him.

Which is a mistake.

There are too many "What ifs" between them, but she doubts any of them will come to fruition. It pains her more than she dares to admit to herself, mainly because her mind always told her that this would be the way. It doesn't change the pain she feels, now that the story unfolds in this manner.  
>Their unit is no more, and thus their relationship has been altered completely. They were colleagues and she would easily say friends, but now - without being together daily - she's almost certain that their friendship will wither. She isn't one to pursue something - their friendship, or him - relentlessly. He wouldn't deal well with it, and she finds it desperate and embarrassing. Accordingly, she deeply regrets leaving him with the information on where she is.<p>

That he hasn't called or texted or anything is clear enough a message.

It intensifies her feeling alone, lonely really, and the huge black hole of so-called freedom looms ever larger and ever less attractive.

The clouds are darker now, promising more rain.

It would be just the thing to tip her mood into downright depression, if she got drenched on her way back. There's nothing worse than sitting in a lonely hotel room, with only your thoughts for company and listening to the rain, while your entire room, your clothes and yourself are damp.

Sardonically, she thinks that a bottle of expensive red wine might not be enough to make that bearable.

She turns, determined to pick up her pace and reach the place before that happens.

She never makes it.

He's standing there, shaking his head at her. It might be an apparition or an illusion, but then he tuts and says, "You're losing it, Grace. Just a few days away and you don't even notice when you are followed?"

She snorts, because it's the first and only reaction she's capable of.

It's only a few steps they need to close the distance and when they do, she sees something in his eyes that is foreign to her.

"You followed me?"

He shrugs - a little sheepish, a little amused, a little 'nobody dare touch her'.

"Somebody needs to make sure..."

He leaves the sentence unfinished and it hits her then that one bottle of expensive red might still not be enough, but for wholly different reasons.

They begin their slow trek back, not speaking at first. They will be, though, by the time they reach her hotel. They will laugh by then too. They'll also be completely drenched by the deluge.

There will be the sound of rain against the windows and the room, their clothes will be damp.

The sheets and their bodies will be as well, but it will have nothing to do with the rain.

They both believe this to happen at some point, but they aren't voicing it. Yet.

It's no longer the wind in her face, but the wind against her back, and she thinks that this might be the exact measure of freedom.

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><p>Thank you for reading. Comments would be greatly appreciated.<p> 


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